Simple Living with Wanda Urbanska

Wanda's Diary Entries

Tuesday, November 1, 2005

On Saturday, I took a trip down memory lane in the form of a telephone conversation with my old boss, Fayette Hickox, who back in 1978 was my boss at the “Paris Review” in New York City. Fayette was the managing editor of that prestigious and idiosyncratic publication, and he and his boss, George Plimpton, offered me my first job out of college. I hadn’t spoken to Fayette in decades. He was calling on behalf of a research project with which he was assisting for a writer named Nelson Aldridge.

“What do you remember about working at this odd little place?” Fayette asked. We chatted about the people we knew— characters we’d run into, the unforgettable Timothy Dickinson who’d worked as a researcher for George and lived at Huntington Hartford’s digs on Sutton Place, the glamorous and brilliant Hallie Gay Walden (now Bagley) who took my place as associate editor and eventually moved on to be managing editor, taking Fayette’s place. We spoke about Peter Alson, who had led me to the “Paris Review” after Peter and I had run into each on the street near the New York Public Library on my second job-hunting day in the city. We spoke about Nikki, out in Flushing, New York, who used to put the book together. My memories were good ones: of walking thirty blocks from my apartment on East 41st to the Review offices on East 72nd Street and arriving at work earlier than anyone else, reading from the famous slush pile of submissions, looking for promising work, assisting George and Fayette in taking messages, answering calls, publicizing George’s work, arranging his travel, proof-reading the book on boards, attending George’s famous parties, which were held upstairs over the office, around the pool table, in George’s home. We talked about George’s generosity, how he really did not create much of a boundary between his office and his personal life. One of my strongest memories of George is a peculiar one. It was back in late April 1980 when Frank had come to the office to visit and George came down in his pajamas, enraged about the failed Iranian hostage rescue attempt. He wanted to express his upset.

George shared with us the telegram he’d sent to the White House. It went: “What on earth are you boys doing down there?” Frank and I have talked and joked about his message ever since then, delivered in idiosyncratic British accented George speak. What was George hoping to accomplish by sending it? My sympathies were always with President Carter and the hostages themselves and what a nightmare the entire episode had been for him.

Last Saturday, I was left with two things: how little things change between people and the lasting impact we all have on each other, even if we meet only briefly and even when we’re out of touch. Fayette remembered, as if yesterday, my interview with May Sarton which never made it into print. I have no idea if Fayette (or Mr. Aldridge) will be able to use a word of what I said during that long conversation in his book. The lasting impression for me, though, is that Fayette and I experienced the pleasures of reconnecting after so many years. It was as if no time at all had passed. We vowed to have lunch next time I came to the city, and we talked about our sons: his 12 year old and my 8 year old, and how our voices sound just the same. The entire day was blessed after this call because one of the greatest human pleasures is our hard-wired connections with each other. It reminds me of what really matters in this life. Talking with Fayette was picking up and putting back in place a line that had fallen down from disuse. And that was wonderful.